Last Train to Paris (11 page)

“Okay,” I said. “Just do it, please.”

“Shave your head?” asked Louis, and I laughed.

“No, no,” I said, “just a regular trim.”

When I returned to the hotel, I went to Andy's room to ask if I could borrow a pair of Ruby's galoshes to wear over my dress-up shoes. “Hey, Andy, you there?” I asked as I knocked and pushed the door open.

The room was a pigsty. Clothes strewn about, a bed without sheets, a saliva-stained pillow without a case, an old green and black plaid blanket on the floor. It was freezing. There were empty whiskey bottles scattered here and there, old crusts of bread, hardened pieces of cheese. It was alarming; he had rubbed out his cigarettes right into the tabletop and left the butts there.

Andy wasn't home.

I had not realized that my friend had slid downhill so drastically. He was obviously in deep trouble. I could understand why. Andy's wife, Ruby, wasn't only a stunner, but a flirt, too. I could certainly see why Andy had fallen for her, but could never figure out what she had seen in the bespectacled, introverted Andy—except that he would bring her to gay Paris. It had not been unusual to walk by their door and hear Ruby screeching. Most likely, Andy had gone mute, since this was his nature, which apparently had made her even angrier. I wondered how such a shrew could be so beautiful. It didn't fit. And now she had left him.

I borrowed the galoshes.

It was a bitterly cold night. Arriving promptly at nine at the American Embassy on the avenue Gabriel, I left my coat, and almost forgot to leave the galoshes. I entered the main reception room. All the fireplaces were lit, candles were burning on the Christmas tree, candelabras were ablaze. I was mesmerized by the glitter. There must have been more than two hundred people there, and in that light everyone looked beautiful.

Before I could get something to drink, I felt someone tapping me on the shoulder.

“Evening, Miss Manon,” Mr. Clancy said. “Come with me. Let's get away from this crowd.” We walked into an anteroom. “Have a seat,” he said, and we both sat on an apple-green silk-upholstered sofa. All I could think about was how my shimmering blue silk blouse was so beautiful against that color.

”I want to ask you, Miss Manon, to do me a favor. We need people like you—who go back and forth over the border with immunity—to carry papers for us to the American Embassy in Berlin.”

“But,” I asked, “isn't there still a diplomatic pouch that goes out each day?”

“Yes,” he said, “there is. However, it's becoming obvious that this won't be allowed much longer and we need to establish a trusted network. Will you do it?”

“I don't know, Mr. Clancy.”

“Miss Manon,” he said, and I could tell he was trying to be polite, “this is really no longer a question. You correspondents know better than anyone what's going on. Seriously, do I need to say more?”

He was right. I did know what was going on, in nightmarish detail.

“I'll do what I can,” I said.

“Good, Miss Manon, I knew you would understand. Now, each time you travel to Berlin, please let my assistant, Miss Kovner, know. She'll arrange for you to receive the papers.”

Well, there goes my theory about beauty and spying, I thought.

“Now, let's sit for a moment longer. I need to talk to you about another serious matter. Listen carefully. We're warning our Jewish citizens and strongly suggesting that they leave Europe.”

“So, what does that have to do with me?”

“Miss Manon,” he said, obviously irritated, “I know you're Jewish through your aunt, Clara Silverman.”

“Well, I'm only half Jewish,” I said, “so I should be fine. And with a name like Manon—”

“Don't count on it, Miss Manon. You know what
mischlingmann
means?” And he didn't wait for my translation. “It means that half-Jewish people, like you, will not be protected much longer. So, please listen to me—believe me. Get out while you can.”

“But if you're telling me to leave because I'm in danger, why are you placing me in more jeopardy by having me be your courier?”

“Ah, of course—good question. To be honest, we'll use you as long as you're freely moving back and forth over the border. What matters most is the job you're doing for us. You're a grown-up. You make your own decisions.”

“That sounds like cold logic to me,” I said.

“It is, Miss Manon. Sadly, it is. But we need trustworthy people—and you're a trustworthy person. Now, I need to get back inside,” Clancy said. “Thanks for helping us, Miss Manon.” We shook hands. “Give me a few moments before you join the party.”

I didn't like any of it. But I really had no choice. I had never been patriotic, but my weariness about patriotism was being replaced with an overwhelming desire to do the honorable thing. How odd. Walking to the door, I paused and looked around the room for the bar.

No. I was seeing things.

It must be the lights.

No. That couldn't be Leon.

But it was. I was sure.

He had not seen me. What to do? I began to walk in his direction, making my way through the crowd of people, keeping him in my line of vision. When I was a few feet away he spotted me and turned to go out the nearest door. The look on his face was not welcoming. I began to shove against people until I reached the door and then looked around. There he was in an alcove, waiting—debonair in a tuxedo.

“What's going on, Leon?” I said. “What are you doing here? What—”

“Wait a minute, Rosie,” he said.

I grabbed him by the arm.

“Let me go, Rosie. I can't tell you anything,” he said. “Nothing at all.” He stood straight as a pole. “Turn around and walk out of here, as if you've just been to the ladies' room. Just
do
it, Rosie. If I see you in Berlin, you'll hear the story. Now go. And don't look back.”

“I can't, Leon,” I whispered. “I love you. What if—”

“No ‘what if's,' dear Rosie. Just go.”

I turned, left the room, not even pausing for a drink, and fetched my coat. Halfway down the street, I realized that my feet were wet from the snow. I had forgotten Ruby's galoshes.

 

I was genuinely rattled. What was going on? I couldn't figure anything out. But Leon appeared to have forgiven my atrocious behavior at the Hotel Aldon's bar.

On my way home I became conscious of my hunger and stopped at Gillotte's for dinner. The bistro had sawdust floors and generations of dead flies piled on the windowsills. It was a kind of home to many of the unmarried reporters, along with prostitutes and pimps. I liked the joint, but that night I felt out of place in my fancy clothes. I looked around, expecting to see Andy, but he wasn't there. No matter. I had to figure all this out. But the more I thought, the more confused I became. Nothing made sense. I ate quickly and left.

When I got back to the Hôtel Espoir, I changed my clothes and went immediately to Andy's room. It was dark inside and I sensed that Andy still wasn't there. I was alarmed. I went back down to the street to the telephone at Henri's Café. Calling the
Courier,
I got Ramsey on the phone.

“Can I speak to Andy?”

“He's not here, R.B. Didn't show for work. Any idea what's going on?”

“None,” I said. “None at all.”

“Well, he'd better get it together. If he's not here tomorrow, he's going to be sacked.”

I went back to my room. I didn't know what to do. Andy skipped around from bar to bar. Finding him could be hopeless—and I already felt hopeless enough for the evening. I went to bed.

The next thing I was aware of was a loud knocking at my door. It was opened, and Monsieur Pleven, the concierge's bald, asthmatic husband, stepped inside.

“Mademoiselle,” he said wheezing through a cigarette, “your boss sent a messenger and said you're to get to the office immediately.”

“This is my day off.”

Monsieur Pleven shrugged. “It's still night, Miss Manon,” he said, and closed the door.

It was a mess outside. While I was sleeping, there had been more snowfall. No wonder everything was so quiet and I had slept so well. Taking the Métro to the George V station, I walked across the snowbound Champs-Élysées in my old Nevada boots, waterproofed with lanolin. There were no cars, no trams. The street lamps cast a soft haze upon the new snow. It felt eerie, not at all romantic–and I felt a stomach-churning trepidation.

The newsroom was gloomy. Ramsey was sitting at his desk, staring out the window. There was no clattering of typewriters, no chattering of copyreaders. It felt as if the world of news had died. Of course it had not, but Andy Roth had.

He had been on a very long drunk and was wandering the Paris streets, incoherent, barely able to walk. Witnesses said that they observed him trying to balance himself on the icy stone railing of the Pont-Neuf and that he had appeared to fall accidentally into the Seine. People tried to help, but he had filled his pockets with small pieces of rubble.

 

I felt a deep invasion of sorrow, but I knew my grieving had to wait.

“His body's at the morgue waiting to be identified,” Ramsey said. “Would you go?”

“Why don't you?” I shot back angrily.

“Too squeamish, I have to admit. Please.”

“But what about his wife?” I asked. “Let her see what she did to him!” I was furious at Ruby.

“She's in London,” he said, “and the police want him identified as soon as possible. And you know Ruby. She'll take her own goddamn good time.”

 

Andy was waiting on a cold slab of grayish white marble. His hands and face were the same cold white. His wonderful red hair had faded to a nauseating pink. His eyelids were closed. He was frowning.

I legally identified my good friend, Andy Roth.

 

A week later, I heard a knock at my door. “Come in, it's open.”

“Hi, Rosie,” stage-whispered Andy's wife Ruby, and she stepped into the room in all her red-headed glory.

Before I knew what had happened, she flung herself into my arms and began to weep. She almost knocked me over. I'd forgotten what a large, strapping woman she was—not at all fat, but substantial and very tall. I led her to the chair and invited her to sit. But she wouldn't let go and began to wail even louder.

“Ssh,” I said. “You don't want the entire hotel coming in the door, do you?”

Ruby sat in the chair, brought her knees together, smoothed out her skirt, and tried to pat her unruly curls into some semblance of propriety. “Okay, luv, let's talk about plans to ship the body home. His parents are hysterical and I want to get all the rituals over with as quickly as possible.”

“Don't you feel for him at all?” I asked. “You're so removed—even your crying seems fake. Dammit,” I said, getting angrier. “Don't you care?”

Ruby shrugged her shoulders.

And I swallowed bile.

 

The British consul arranged to ship Andy home. Ruby played the bereft widow like a professional. She wore a black veil and carried a black lace-trimmed handkerchief. I rode in the embassy's car with her, following the hearse to the boat at Le Havre. We hardly spoke. When we arrived, the longshoremen, traditionally honoring the dead, stood at attention, holding their caps. The driver opened the car door and Ruby got out. I waited a moment, thinking he would come around and do the same for me. It didn't happen. I got out by myself and walked around the car to where she was standing. The hearse backed up to the edge of the dock and the casket was lifted out by eight men. She began to walk up the gangplank behind the coffin.

“Wait, I'll go with you,” I said, trying to be kind.

“The hell with you,” she said. She took an obvious breath and—like a movie star—walked slowly, and with great deliberation, up the gangplank. Ruby was well aware that all the men were watching her, and when she reached the hold of the ship, she gave an extra swish of her hips as a final good-bye.

 

* * *

 

My personal toll of dead people grew. On a bleak and snowy day, Stella Mair's body was found buried under the doorstep of a small villa on the periphery of Paris. Because the soil was primarily clay, she was well preserved. But it was obvious that the murderer had trouble digging in the clay; her body was buried jack-knifed in half at the waist, her head wedged between her knees. Although fully clothed, she was barefoot. Stella had been strangled. A rosebush was planted on her grave.

The alleged murderer was a German national named Ernst Vosberg. With blood on his clothes, a swollen lip, and a bloody bandage wrapped around his head, he was brought shackled to the police station. After being tended to by a doctor, he stood before the bench and was booked for the murder of Stella Mair.

That afternoon, Inspector Pascal said that despite what reporters had thought, this wasn't a cold case. “We check every tip that comes into headquarters, no matter how small.

“Due to a conscientious citizen, we found our answer.”

On the day of the murder, the accused murderer's neighbor, Illario Sandro, had been in the process of vacating his house and moving back to Rome. He hadn't read about the missing actress, but many months later a friend told him the story. He wrote to the police in Paris and told them about having heard screams from the next house. Assuming it was a lovers' quarrel, he didn't want to interfere. But those sounds had continued to haunt him.

They finally had an address and set off immediately. When the police arrived, no one was home.

Five minutes later, a man came through the garden gate while playing with another neighbor's dog. The police began to question him. Ernst Vosberg, who gave his name as “Robert Hunter,” asked to see their credentials.

The policemen showed him their identity cards. Vosberg went into the villa.